


The Idiot

by Sheffield



Series: Dark!Gregor [6]
Category: Vorkosigan Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-26
Updated: 2013-07-26
Packaged: 2017-12-21 10:46:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/899406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sheffield/pseuds/Sheffield
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Byerly Vorrutyer, meet Thug Central.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Idiot

**Author's Note:**

> There are two other characters in this tale, but naming them would be spoilery. If you really need to know before reading the story, you'll find them named at the end.

“One day they will come for you, and you’d better be ready” his grandfather had always said, and hadn’t he been right, Byerly thought glumly. His left eye ached like no-one’s business under the blindfold and the restraints were tight enough to have cut off all circulation in his wrists and ankles. Oddly, however, he found it was the dried blood on his chin that was the most infuriating part of his predicament, a maddening itch that he literally just couldn’t scratch.

The lift van stopped and someone shoved him out onto - carpet?  
“That’s enough,” someone said, and hands lifted him to his feet and stood him precariously upright while the ankle restraints were removed.  
“Now don’t kick, there’s a good gentleman, and we won’t have to put these on again,” the voice continued. 

Interesting, By thought: the people who’d bagged him had been straight up shockstick thugs. This one sounded... well, normal, shockingly enough. Like a street guard or an armsman or even an Imp-something.

He found himself hoping he was in the hands of some kind of officialdom. He could probably talk his way out of most things, after all.

Someone pushed something into his mouth and put paid to that thought. He was hustled along a carpeted corridor, strong hands in his armpits holding him upright as the blood flowed, complaining loudly, back into his abused feet and ankles. There was carpet, then tile, then more carpet; a lift tube, more carpet. Warmth. The smell of coffee. 

Finally he stood, bound and blindfold, and the hands that had brought him there were withdrawn. He pushed at the gag with his tongue but couldn’t get any purchase, and he had a momentary panic at the lack of sensory input.

“Thank you gentlemen,” someone said. 

Footsteps - two.. four... no, six people left the room. Really, he wished he could have said, summoning up a bit of bravado, six hearties to handle little old me?

That voice was...

“Byerly,” the voice said. “I have an... interesting challenge for you. In a moment I’m going to take off the blindfold and the wrist locks. You have a box at your feet and exactly two minutes to pack it with... anything you can find in this room that you think might be useful for a short period of incarceration. If you touch the gag I’ll use the shockstick again. If you do anything except collect your supplies, I’ll use the shockstick again. In fact, if you look at me I’ll probably use the shockstick again. I think I might like it, and you really don’t want me to learn to like it.”

That voice wasn’t...

The speaker moved behind him and he froze as hands fumbled with the blindfold. 

It was...

It looked very much like one of the rooms in the Residence. The Yellow Parlour, with the remains of a buffet laid out, and an empty box about the size of a case of wine at his feet. By didn’t want to collapse the wave, didn’t want to know who was standing behind him, so he picked up the box and moved to the table. Supplies meant food, presumably? He glanced down the table and snagged a bottle of decent brandy and a couple of bottles of red, then bethought himself and half filled the box with water. Protein... rat bars weren’t served at Imperial Buffets, of course, but there were a few leftover canapes, chicken legs. His eyes glanced covertly around the room. They sometimes used candleabra so he snagged a couple of candles and a lighter. What else? Ah. He opened the drawers of a little escritoire in the corner and heard his captor snigger.

“Time’s up. Stand still.”

He froze, and his captor... he couldn’t think of him as anything else, not and stay sane... pulled a bag over his head and he was back in darkness.

“This way.”

At least his hands weren’t bound.

Clutching the box to his chest, By allowed himself to be led, blind, along another piece of carpet. Then there was a pause, some noise - and WHAT was that SMELL? - and then he was pushed.

There was a confused moment when he fell onto - something? Someone? The source of the smell, most certainly, and he clawed at the bag and the gag and for the candles and the lighter.

“Byerly?”

For a good few seconds he didn’t understand, and then his brain unfroze and restarted pattern recognition. Take away the hideous growth of beard, add about thirty pounds of weight, and the skeletal wild man could actually be the person he’d been looking for when he met Thug Central. He hoped Lady Alys would take that into account when he finally managed to get them out of this mess.

“Ivan, you idiot!”

**Author's Note:**

> Gregor. Ivan. D'oh.


End file.
